


Imaginer

by SapphireSassenach



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 16:56:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6762379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphireSassenach/pseuds/SapphireSassenach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, this is just a slightly different version of the night Jamie and Claire went to Versailles in 2x02 and what Jamie’s mindset was in my head. NSFW. And as always, let me know what you think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imaginer

Jamie’s heart had never felt more full. Though, not full in the way it was when he had first found love with his Claire. When he felt it surge with passion and tenderness every time he looked into her whiskey eyes or held her in his arms.

Not full in the way when he would take her in those early days of their marriage, when he thought his whole being would explode with every burning touch of her hand on his body, blazing him and marking him as forever hers and hers alone.

No. His heart was now full of torment and shame. With every touch of his wife’s hands now brought guilt, along with love and lust. Unable to look at her without feeling how unmanly he was. How he couldn’t satisfy her as a husband should.

He knew how the other men looked at her tonight in that sinful red dress. She stood out like a vibrant red poppy in a field of green, a beacon of light in the room that made even the most beautiful paintings weep from the vision of her. 

He saw their lingering gazes as she brushed passed them. He saw how the short French men stood on their toes to try and get a glimpse of her bosom, barley concealed in Christ’s blood. He saw and all he could do was clench his hands in furry and want, his injured hand aching in protest. 

Jamie knew what they wanted to do to her, for there was no one who wanted to pull up her grand skirts and plow her into the ornate walls until she cried out and melted against him in love and bliss more than him.

For one brief moment, he was envious of those men. For they hadn’t a clue. 

They imagined and they lusted, but they didn’t know how she cried out when he hit that spot deep inside her or how she clawed at his back when he could take a slow pace no more and pounded into her until she drew blood from her scratching. They didn’t know her sounds of pleasure; they didn’t know how godlike she looked when she walked towards him wearing nothing but a coy smile, bathed in moonlight and love.

All these men did was imagine, but Jamie had all of the memories, all of the sights of his wife lost in ecstasy. And he had to live with the knowledge and be unable to make her collapse against him in satisfaction. He couldn’t serve her as he once did, as he craved to do. That black-hearted bastard had taken that gift and joy away from him, replacing it with an empty husk of the man he once was.

He bit his tongue so hard as he tasted blood as he stood watching his wife charm some French noble as he stood listening to blather about chess. 

Jamie was glad for the loose fit of his silk pants, for it hid the desperate aching he felt for his lost wife. He took a large gulp of the wine in his hand as he continued to watch her, for that was all he could do. The noise and sight of everything around him blurring until he saw nothing but the red encased form of her. 

And he imagined, just like every other damn man in the room.

He imagined how he would walk over to her, passing all the dandies in silk until he got right next to her. He imagined how he would taker her hand and give it a gentle kiss as she watched on with desire. 

The images flashed before him, so real he could almost feel her in his arms. He would sweep her away from the court and into a carriage, and shut the blinds tight against the prying eyes of the rich. He would worm his hand under her red skirts, moving slow against her thigh, feeling each inch of her fresh and smooth skin until he reached her very core.

He would feel her whimper against him as he dipped his fingers into her white-hot heat and he would feel her press into his hand as she unwove in ribbons into his capable hands. 

He saw him take her into their room and finally christen their new bed. He saw himself tear off that whore’s dress and burry himself into her breasts, biting and pulling until she cried out even louder. He could picture them perfectly, sae round with the tips as bright red as her dress after his attentions, standing up hard as stone in his mouth.

He saw him push her onto the bed, shedding his clothes and plunging into her hard. It would be hard, unable after so long to wait to love her gently. Sweat would begin to appear on both of their skin from the pulsing passion as he thrust again and again against her in a mad furry to make up for time lost.

He would watch as sweat from his chest dripped onto her body, rolling down her swelled belly as she clutched his buttocks while rutting against him, squirming and urging him to push deeper until they became one soul. 

He saw her face under him, flushed and pink as her honeypot. Rose-bud mouth parted as her wee bonny sounds escaped, whimpers when he pushed deeper and high-pitched squeaks as he used his good hand to wiggle between them and brush against her most sensitive spot.

He almost felt it. The rhythm they would have, both their damp bodies intertwined, pulsing and pulsing until… until…

“Jaime!” 

He gasped as he opened his eyes to the concerned look of his godfather. The room was spinning before his eyes and his body rocked with effort to still the fire inside. Almost blinded as he felt as though he was just in the darkness of their bedroom, not in the brightly lit palace of Versailles. 

He turned towards Murtagh and mumbled about needing air as he walked ashamed into the darkened hallway. 

The wall felt cool on his overheated skin as he slumped against it, away from prying eyes as he tried to escape his shame. 

A light touch on his shoulder made him jump in fright. He looked up to see nothing but red. Claire’s eyes started down at him, concerned as he panted against the gold wall, sweaty and disheveled. 

She gently brought her hand against his hot forehead. “Are you alright?”

He managed to put a smile on his face as he stood. “Aye, I just felt hot. All the people,” he waved his hand toward to the room he had vacated.

She rubbed her hand on his shoulder lightly and he recoiled. It brought everything back. The longing, the desire, and the crippling shame at being unable to do anything but imagine.

He felt her hand drop, trying so hard to hide her hurt and put a brave smile on for him. His heart twisted and was heavy once more as he pressed a gentle kiss to her hand and held his arm out for her.

“Come, lass. Let’s go flatter some more French flops.”

The corners of her mouth turned up and she threaded her arm through his gently, but he saw the glistening shine in her eyes.

Walking back toward the room, he had to hold back his own tears and feel the ghost of what once was. God.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, let me know what you think.


End file.
